Moonstruck
by reenka
Summary: `All true love is unrequited.' Harry & Cho & the futility of regret and moonlight both.


disclaimer: harry belongs to jk rowling.  
  
warning: R. het.  
  
author's note: meant for the `slashers do het' challenge.  
  
  
~~Moonstruck.  
  
  
"All true love is unrequited."  
~~Joseph Michael Straczynski  
  
  
She was never much good at being patient, and she didn't know what she wanted anymore, so there was nothing to wait for. She was feeling listless and tired and deflated and her mind flitted from one thing to another without being able to rest upon anything for longer than a minute. She certainly couldn't look at all the carefully blank faces inevitably looking at her, trying to seem comforting and soft and managing only a vague sort of unease. She thought if she sat still for longer than an hour she would combust.   
  
She flew and flew and flew, and the Snitch was always right there, in her hand, too soon, too solid. No one was laughing anymore, or clapping her on the back roughly, or congratulating her. Sometimes she thought they were a second away from hugging her, or crying. The only one who never seemed to care for anything but victory was Malfoy. She loved the Slytherin-Ravenclaw matches, the feeling of freedom in being able to respond to such a cold, ruthlessly competitive player. When she beat him, she smiled, and the buzzing in the back of her head died down.  
  
When there were clear nights, and the stars were out, she'd stare out the window and count to the fourth one from the center, to the northeast of the huge sprawling oak right outside her dorm-room window. It winked a little at her, glowing a strange, eerie green if you squinted right. She's always liked that star. It was still there, even though it wasn't, some nights. If you were patient, and kept coming back, you'd be sure to see it again, when the wind blew just right and there weren't too many clouds.  
  
One day every week, every few days, she'd wake up and she'd be angry, so angry she wanted to kill someone, inflict serious physical damage. It didn't matter whom-- she hated them all. People had learned to leave her alone and she hated them for it. Their smiles seemed plastered on their faces everywhere she looked, and she hated that too. She wished she could smear their morning eggs on all of their faces, smear their chins and cheeks and noses with strawberry jam and storm out of the Hall. She wasn't going to take it anymore. What right had they to look at her, to think of her? She didn't exist anymore, didn't they understand that?  
  
And him. He watched her.   
  
Oh, he tried to pretend like he wasn't-- he looked away at the slightest hint she noticed, at the smallest tilt of her head. But watch her he did. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that stupid, moonstruck expression on his face, laced with sadness and a frustrated, hopeless look. She hated that most of all. She'd never looked like that. Cedric ... she was never frustrated with Cedric... he just gave her things....  
  
The nights she went out to practice alone, chasing that elusive green star, sometimes he'd be there. In the darkness, when they could barely see each other, and since they never spoke-- it was almost-- It was almost like--  
  
Well, everyone looks alike when they're merely shadows. From behind her, she could barely discern movement. A shadow, circling lazily, diving and pulling up sharply, just playing randomly without a golden ball to chase. Sometimes she found herself stifling a smile. So carefree. So naive. Was he here to cheer her up, yet another ridiculous attempt? Or did he come here of his own volition, for his own reasons? She didn't think much on this, but she felt they had an understanding-- as long as he didn't break it, she would assume so, anyway.  
  
It became so that she couldn't quite connect the swiftly moving shadow chasing stardust along with her in the dark with the blushing, stammering boy she still caught unwilling glimpses of in daylight. It wasn't difficult to not even try making that connection, to let her mind separate them. To refrain from giving names-- giving either of them names. It was easier that way. Cleaner. There was no Harry. There was no Cedric. Really, there was no Cho, either, these days.  
  
Maybe this was what gave her the strength to touch his arm, to fly next to him as he landed, holding him back when he would've walked away. In the dark, she couldn't really make out his features, except for the odd silver glint from the glasses concealing his eyes. Even then, he didn't speak, though he held still under her fingers, and she could feel him shiver a little.  
  
Now that she'd stopped him, she didn't know what to do-- she really didn't know what she wanted, after all. Perhaps she just wanted to know what he was doing, flying like this. What was he trying to catch, or to chase away. What was he trying to change, or keep the same. But all those questions sounded foolish and empty, and she looked quizzically on her slender fingers on his robes, and wondered what in the world had possessed her.  
  
Her hand fell fluidly to her side. His chin had dropped slightly towards his chest, and he sighed. And there they were, feeling awkward, standing still, unable to even look at each other. Both wished they were somewhere else-- anywhere else. They had nothing to say to each other, really. Nothing that wouldn't get stuck in their throats and choke them. Nothing that wouldn't leave Cho angry, stalking away wishing she could stab something. Preferrably Harry.  
  
"Sorry," she whispered, meaning she was sorry she gave the wrong impression, sorry because there was nothing, really, and there never had been. He knew it was hard to accept nothing, she knew all too well. But she also knew there was really nothing one could do about nothing. One walked on, and tried to pretend it wasn't there, and no sorry was ever good enough, but one said it anyway, because it's easier than not saying anything at all.  
  
"No--" he whispered, barely audible. And then he'd turned around, and gave a hitching little breath, and the next thing she knew, his arms were around her, and she as smelling cinnamon and grass and dust and nighttime dew. She wanted to sneeze. She wanted to run. This was all wrong. The world was tilting, and there was a rushing sound in her ears. This was just-- terribly wrong-- she couldn't see-- she couldn't breathe-- Cedric--  
  
* * *  
  
She came to, cradled in his lap, seeing the lenses of his glasses glinting at her from above. For long moments, she had no idea how she'd ended up here, and why was he cradling her head, and why was she feeling so weak-- she didn't know if she could move, right then--  
  
And then she remembered. Oh.  
  
"I can get up now," she said, finally. He nodded. She tried to get up, without much success. There was still that tilting feeling, the rushing noise and the nausea wasn't very far behind either. Her chest felt empty and she felt kind of numbly hollow everywhere, if she thought about it. One sudden movement, and she'd break. One movement, and she'd throw up on his lap, more likely.  
  
Why was he holding her hand? His fingers were warm and tight, and he was squeezing hers, and she felt like he was holding her down, grounding her somehow, as if she'd fly away if he didn't squeeze really tightly. She was glad he wasn't saying anything, or trying to look her in the eye. If she remembered who he was fully, if she woke up-- if she moved-- the spell would be broken. Or perhaps it was her who would be broken. She wasn't sure.  
  
Her hand felt warm, but her body was cold. She closed her eyes slowly. His palm was dry, and rough, and strangely solid. His thumb was rubbing little circles on her own palm now, and she didn't hate it, though she supposed she should, really. She should really hate it, and she should really get up now. She should really go to bed now, too. She was supposed to be asleep hours ago, really, and there was the Arithmancy homework to do, and.... Why was she prone on a boy's lap in the middle of the night? She couldn't resolve the scene enough to find an answer. Everything seemed so fuzzy-- so very fuzzy--  
  
It was almost like she was asleep, except she was awake. It was almost like she could see his eyes, glinting green like stars, far-away and indecipherable. Lonely, just like stars. Glinting and shining if you knew how to find them, in their murky darkness. She stared, wondering what the stars saw. The boy wasn't moving, and neither was she, except the stars-- and the eyes-- and the stars-- were moving her.....  
  
It seemed like an eternity, and she wasn't waiting, really, because she would never wait, not anymore, not for anything. The stars seemed to drift closer, and then closer still, but maybe that was just his eyes, aligning themselves right above hers, gleaming fiercely now, beaming green straight into her head. So close. Not very far at all, now. Very close....  
  
He may have been whispering something. It may have been her name, but she would never know. She had closed her eyes, and she didn't really hear anything anymore beyond the strange, fluid rushing in her head.  
  
His lips were tentative, and soft, and barely there, fluttering gently against hers. Sweet. She thought they tasted sweet, hints of honey and a distant tingle, almost like that of magic, slow and burning and heavy on her mind, like a cotton comforter, wrapping her in heat....  
  
She didn't touch him back, but she didn't move away. She couldn't. His mouth was merely one more sensation, among a myriad others. The soft whisper of the wind against her skin. The rough fabric of her robes against her thigh. The ground, pliant and forgiving under her feet. Everything seemed in its place, comfortable and immovable, not likely to go away. She moaned, because the ground was soft, and the wind was cold, and he was holding her hand so tightly the blood couldn't reach it.  
  
If she died now, she wouldn't have minded. The noise in her head was so loud, she may not have even noticed.   
  
But she didn't die, after all.  
  
She lived.  
~~~~~  
  
He didn't expect her to look at him. He knew his place, he knew it was hopeless now. He didn't expect it would matter-- he didn't suppose she would notice. She hadn't been looking at much of anyone-- her eyes downcast, her skin sallow, pale and translucent, like the finest parchment. She seemed so much older, so much more worn. Her hair didn't shine like it used to, sparkling in the sun as she'd race for the gold, laughing. Did she laugh, anymore? He didn't think so. He didn't hear it, though he waited. Though he wanted to.  
  
He knew better than to imagine she'd laugh for -him-... but they said time heals all wounds, and though it wasn't true for him, he supposed he was a special case, even though he tried not to think that. With every week, she grew more transparent, until the point where he could almost see through her to the wilting grasses of late October. Everything was turning red and yellow and brown, the color of old blood and fresh bruises. He got headaches every morning, which dissipated with the midday sun, but then returned at nightfall. He couldn't find it in himself to tell anyone, not this too. They would add yet another thing, yet another reason to hold his elbow, to make sure he drank his tea, ate his oranges. Hermione's voice was softer lately, and her attempts to be gently reassuring didn't sit well with her nature, but still she tried. Ron was the same as always, though his glances shifted away from him more and more, lingering on Hermione's hands, her elbows, the hollow in her neck. Her mouth most of all.  
  
He didn't know why he dreamt of Voldemort some nights, and some nights of nothing. Well, not quite nothing. He dreamt of being alone in the forest, standing very still in the moonlight. He would be able to hear the most minute rustling, softly mysterious, wet chewing sounds somewhere close-by, the sound of little feet scrambling over crackling branches. The moonlight would be dim, streaking through the thinning treetops, turning everything shades of silver. He didn't think much of silver. Or green, for that matter. If he thought of it, he'd be hard-pressed to come up with a color he didn't have negative connotations for: crimson was for blood, blue was for sadness, yellow was for gold and Snitches and cups and losing even when you won.  
  
Orange was okay. He liked his sweater. It was warm enough to practice in late in the evenings, when he couldn't sleep and his headaches got too bad. He wondered why she was there, fleetingly, but he didn't let himself linger. If he didn't think about it, if he didn't acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn't stop. Maybe he could keep this, as long as he kept really really still and didn't say anything. Maybe if he didn't look at her, she wouldn't look back with the dead, indifferent look in her eyes, glazed over and distant and completely, decisively unreachable.  
  
In the dream, he would stand very still, and forget why he was there, if he ever knew, and wish to sit down-- perhaps even lie down-- on the frost-laced grass, but he wouldn't. He would start to lose focus, to forget he could see, his vision disappearing as if swallowed by the cloak of darkness. And then it would come. The unicorn would approach slowly, picking its way delicately among the yellowed blades underfoot, melting the frost and turning sickly yellow to vibrant, deathly green. It would be looking at him, at its eyes and horn and shiny coat glowing silver, just like the moonlight. He didn't like silver, but in that moment, it seemed to breathe magic into his skin, and he felt alive.   
  
The unicorn would lower its horn as he simultaneously raised his wrist, and with just the tiniest of prickles, a tiny, perfectly round droplet would well upon his pale skin. His blood was silver, just like the moonlight.  
  
* * *  
  
And here she was, in his arms, and he wasn't looking into her eyes at all, because his own were drifting shut, and all he saw was black, with colors swirling under his eyelids like schools of disoriented, flustered fish.  
  
He remembered his dream, then, and the unicorn, and the deepest, darkest silver, the silver of blood instead of dreams and moonlight. He felt he was living-- he felt his heart might stop, and his consciousness fail him, because her lips were electric ripples through his body, and he couldn't help but shudder, again and again.  
  
Time stretched out, elongated, bent.  
  
He lay down beside her on the cold, half-frozen earth, his body quietly unfolding in its own due time, just like it had always meant to. He breathed softly into her cool, fragrant skin, his nose buried in the side of her neck. She wasn't moving, but he wasn't worried. He could hear her breathe, deep and full, slow, careful breaths. Her chest was lifting against his palm, which was splayed against it, just at the bottom of her ribcage, gently.  
  
He felt as if he was living out a dream, and no reality could possibly apply. This is what he never had the chance to do, and so he did it. The ground was cold, and his nose and fingers and his toes were turning slightly red, not that he noticed. There were so many smells and sounds and sensations, just like he knew there would be, with an ear to the ground, with a hand on her breast.  
  
His hand was moving in slow, lazy circles on her stomach, having burrowed, found skin. He could feel her breaking out in gooseflesh, her knees knocking together, her head lolling to the side, away from him. She exhaled, slowly.  
  
In his mind were strange, disjointed images, brightly colored visions. He saw her at breakfast, picking at her eggs, a frown on her face. He saw her smiling, her hand closed firmly around a Snitch, the gold of it gleaming brightly through her fingers, like stray sunbeams. He saw her sitting in a corner of the library, leaning against a tall, blurry window, the world outside a mass of shifting grey shadows lost within the rain.  
  
She was shivering now, but still she didn't try to move away, and his mouth felt much too hot, humid and invasive, moving relentlessly down her arm, drifting across to her side. He left a glistening trail behind him, scattered in strings of pearls and diamonds upon her skin. His tongue was shy and intermittent, barely grazing here and there, mostly only an accompaniment to heated bubbles of breath.  
  
If he were to stop and wonder, he would just stop. He didn't wonder.  
~~~~~  
  
Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she was lost in burning lucid dreams. They felt real. Wet and soft and moving frenziedly against her, tongue/mouth/fingers everywhere, lapping at her skin, everything bared and wet, being drunk. She felt it, and it was just as real as the cold, clear air slipping everywhere around her, caressing her eyelids, sliding smoothly down her stomach.   
  
The warmth was pulsating, beating rhythmically within her, against her, beside her, like a second heartbeat. She wriggled slightly deeper into its grasp, content to let it lap at her, soft and comforting like a womb; sourceless, faceless. She was being cradled by the mother of all mothers, the fearless endless darkness. If she opened her mouth, the wet warm dark would have rushed in, filling her, and she wouldn't have to wait.  
  
It wanted her. It needed her. It was a tongue, fucking her mouth, a finger inside her, a cock digging into her thigh. It wanted her to let go, to let it take her away, on a blood-dark river of no regrets and no tomorrows, rushing to its estuary between her thighs, thick and red and pungent.  
  
She opened her eyes.  
~~~~~  
  
Suddenly, everything was deathly silent. There was no noise anywhere, inside or out, and it was deafening, louder than a scream.   
  
She could hear him breathe-- small, hitching pants. He seemed to be attempting to control them, and she could feel his eyes once again on her face, but he wasn't doing a very good job. His hand still hadn't moved from her stomach, heated, feverish. She wanted-- needed-- to move.  
  
The world seemed tilted, strangely wrong, though she couldn't have put a finger on why.  
  
There was blood between her thighs, looking black in the darkness, startling and strong to her nostrils, painless. He was looking at her, seeming shell-shocked, his eyes wide and completely black, like a starless sky left without its one green light.  
  
He was holding up a finger drenched in dark crimson, staring, horrified, unable to look at her now.  
  
For a long, protracted minute, she just looked at him there, having risen to his knees, seemingly supplicant beside her, with her blood on his hands, crying.  
  
She laughed, free and easy and without a thought to consequence. Smoothly, she got up, searching the silver-dotted night for the moon which had so far eluded her.  
  
And there it was, bright clear silver, when she'd risen, when she'd turned away.  
  
As she walked back, slowly, face lifted to the moon, she couldn't help but smile when he called her name.  
~~~~~~~~~ 


End file.
